"We have
learned that increased respect of severe weather lasts about two years after a
major event like April 27," Spann told Blinder.

That sentence
stopped me cold then. Now I have seen it happen with my own eyes.

I'm going to attend
a memorial service today for UA student Nicole Mixon, one of the 250 people that died
across Alabama that day. With me will be her close friend, Chelesea Thrash, a
survivor whose back was broken when her spine was pushed to one side, twisted, just like everything
the tornado left in its wake. Walking, or any sense of normal, were a faraway
dream that day for her.

View full sizeNicole Mixon was killed by the tornado that hit Tuscaloosa April 27, 2011.

Now that all seems
so long ago.

Sandwiched in
between taking my daughter to dance practice, Dragon Boat races on the Black
Warrior River and Saturday errands, I will pause to remember. Not that I need
to. Like many survivors, not a day goes by when I don't think about it in some
way. I don't know how many people will go to memorials today, but I guarantee
it's not as many as last year, and next year will be more of the same.

Maybe that's good.
It's good to see progress. In Tuscaloosa, the ducks are happy at home in a full, glittering Forest
Lake. I get excited over a fast food chain opening as a sign of progress. Even
a new stop sign is cause for celebration. Tuscaloosa is a town ever so slowly
waking up from a nightmare and putting itself back together.

But there is much work to be done.

Why do all of our schools
still not have safe rooms or shelters? They are future toothpicks in the wake
of a tornado. Why do we in the South perpetuate the stereotype of the dumb
Southerner by not building to very strong tornado codes? In California
earthquakes are part of life. So are building codes to protect people in a
natural disaster.

Two years later I can't send my daughter to school on a day when we
have tornado warnings for fear of another April 27, which wiped out several
schools in its path.

Why do people in positions of authority not listen to James Spann when he talks about our tornado
warning system being broken, alarming people all too often when not necessary?
It's still not fixed.

It's time to quit stepping gingerly, move
forward and call people out on things that are still wrong, much too long after the event.

I'm not talking
about rebuilding. That should be a slow and thoughtful process that takes time.
I'm talking about the safety of my family, and yours.

I
hear a lot of talk about the tornado bringing out the best in people, and in
this state. That is true in many cases, to be sure. But for some, that day ultimately
brought out the worst in people. Complacency. Mistrust. Hatred. Theft.
Greed. And it's still happening right here in my own city.

This
is not right.

In my own small world, there are small and large things I carry with me two years after
surviving in a tiny closet as my neighborhood blew up around me. The large ones - to live a full and meaningful life - are obvious. But some are so small they surprise
even me.

I
don't shop sales. Sure I used to love a good end-of-season bargain, but who
knows if it will be blown away by a tornado by the next year? Saving things for
the future really doesn't happen in my house anymore.

There is not a time, day or night, when I can't tell you what the weather forecast is.

I
actually walk past people in Home Depot or Lowe's and silently scoff at them agonizing
about picking out granite or tile. I spent three years renovating my home and
in three minutes that was all undone. Under my breath I mutter, "Don't bother."

We
have bike helmets and don't ride bikes. If you're tornado savvy, you know why.

I
was once very caring about how my home was decorated. We never moved back home –
too emotionally difficult – after the tornado. We live in an apartment
that, two years later, still has no paint on the wall, very little personality
and boxes still unpacked. Taking the time to beautify just seems silly.

I
never, ever leave my devices uncharged. My cell phone, Kindle and
laptop are fully charge at all times, just in case.

Those are small, insignificant things. If you want a picture of now vs. then that will make your breath catch, come
with me to my daughter's school as I pick her up in the afternoon and watch a
man carry his elementary-aged daughter to the car. She has a cane in her hand, slung
over his back, and it bounces as he walks. He almost winces, but looks used to
it. I gasp. The girl is missing one leg.

My daughter, Isabel, was 8 when the tornado changed her life forever, and is now 10. She climbs into the back seat. I look in my rear view afraid to ask, but I'm a reporter so I can't help myself.

"Honey,
do you know the adorable little girl with the cane?" I ask.

She replies yes and tells me her name.

"Was
she born with her leg like that?" I ask.

"Nope. Lost it in the tornado," Isabel says, as nonchalantly as if I had asked her what color the sky is.

I think of how the wind brushed us against death and let us go that day. And how grateful I am to have limbs. And life. And love.

My child doesn't know the world without fear at the first cloud. And the little girl with the cane won't remember much of life before her leg was lost. These are children who have seen the inside of a tornado and lived to tell about it.

For the first time in a while I allow myself to be engulfed by the tornado, pull over, put my head on the wheel and sob.

Reach Meredith Cummings at upbeat.al@gmail.com or on Twitter @merecummings.